I must be delusional because I was under the impression that I was a mother, not an orangutan. If I don’t have at least one child hanging on me, I have two. And they insist on using all of their weight to show me how much they love me while I am gathering up laundry or defrosting chicken. When I am eating my ritualistic salad for dinner, I appreciate Abbi’s asking me if I’d be interested in a “scalp massage”; however, she insists on sitting behind me while I eat. I am now a roughage-eating bobble head. The shredded carrots are falling off of the fork. I cannot spear an olive.

 Help. Me.

When I forego my runs outside and opt for the treadmill, Lyv begins to hand me things, including but not limited to: saran wrap (don’t ask), an empty milk carton (soy, of course), and various remote controls (no longer operable). Why is this? I have a theory.

            I think my young know that I have a closing time. Every night, at exactly 6 p.m., eastern standard time, I physically, mentally, and emotionally shut down. I do not care who hit whom, I don’t care if you forgot to scrub extra hard with Mommy’s loofah at bath time, and if you’re lucky you can probably get away with eating the leftover cake frosting for dinner at least by Friday night. When Lyv was using a fork to eat ants off of the floor the other night, I was concerned. But did I stop her? Sadly, no. I have watched enough Andrew Zimmern to know that in some countries, ants are a delicacy. I am allowing Abbi and Lyv to simply embrace other cultures. We are helping to break down the barriers that limit cultural assimilation in Miami. This is also why I laughed it off (after I made sure I lectured her loud enough just in case the neighbors were listening or watching) when Lyv “hid” her goldfish crackers in the dirt, only to dig them up 18 seconds later and shovel them in her mouth.

 It’s not that my morals and ideologies that accompany motherhood have diminished; I am just more apt to turn a blind eye when the sun goes down. For example, from the time I pick Abbi up from school at 2 p.m., she fills my brain with information. Is she aware that I only have 4 quality hours left? Is this why she talks with haste about things that ultimately have no relevance? Is she making a last attempt to pick my brain before it powers down? Do I know how old the sky is? Where do they sell refills for digital cameras?

What?

As I made dinner the other night, Lyv decided to climb into the dishwasher. Lucky for her, it was 5:56 p.m. I promptly pulled her out and explained as best as I could to a 16 month old that dishwashers are not for people. If she felt grimy, I’d be happy to bathe her as long as it was within the next 4 minutes. If Abbi has book reports to finish- or start- I have to admit that sometimes we don’t even read the book. I will ask her if she has any idea what the book (of choice) is about, and if it sounds close to the message the author was trying to convey, we are on the same page. No pun intended. I am not a bad parent, nor am I neglectful. I am just one person, responsible for three. I feel like my girls are my cloak, and when they are not with me, I feel naked. I will be out somewhere- Target or Publix as you very well now know- and if they are not with me, I will stop dead in my tracks. I will look for them for that split second before I remember that, yes, they are at school and the babysitter, respectively. I live for the sound of their laughter, for the way Abbi can add humor to what would otherwise be an inappropriate conversation for a 6 year old. My heart leaps when Lyv wraps herself around my neck, sparking my initial concern about my being a mom or some sort of an embodiment, illustrated in a Jane Goodall documentary.

Nevertheless, they are my light.

 I would like to put Abbi in Girl Scouts. Why haven’t I? Maybe she will learn how to cook. I kid. I would like to put more volunteer hours in at her school with the PTA. I would love to be able to divide myself up into three’s so that each of us can get equal parts love, humor and attention. That would require mathematics, and I just realized: 
            It’s after 6 o’clock.

    I feel like this right now.

    I made the huge mistake of sending my Mom an email.  Sounds harmless enough, right?  EHHHH, wrong.  My commentary in the email made my Mom consider, even if only for a second, joining Facebook. Fuck.

    In the email, I sent my Mom a picture of a family that we used to know when we lived in Miami.  We lived in Lake Village, this small community of townhomes where everyone knows everyone else’s bidness, where the kids have their first kisses with other kids in the neighborhood while their parents scream at each other at the “town hall” meetings held in the rec room. 

    The picture I sent her was of another mom she was friends with, her daughter (whose older sister I was friends with) and their son, who we last saw in diapers.  The picture was of the family at the son’s high school graduation.

    Five minutes after I send the email, my phone rings.

    “Hiiii Mom,” I answer.

     “She’s so well preserved,” she says.  (‘She’ being her old friend, who really does look gorgeous.)

     Well preserved?  Like a mummy?

    I forgot to mention that in the same email, I wrote that the well preserved mummy (badum bum) was on Facebook, and I told her that Julie’s mom, and Monica’s mom, and a bunch of other moms of my friends were too.

    Now why did I go and do something so stupid?

    I don’t want my parents on Facebook.  I talk about them.  A lot. Not in a bad, like they totally suck and I can’t stand them way, but in a funny way.  A harmless way.  But I can just hear my Mom calling me at work saying, “Why did you saaaaaay that about me,” after reading something I wrote about how she bought a tie-dyed T-Shirt at Haight Ashbury in San Francisco with a pot leaf on it, and threatened to wear it to Publix to piss me off. Shit like that. Comedy gold.  How can I help it?

    My Mom asks me why I told her the other moms were on Facebook.  “Are you trying to make me feel technologically retarded since I wouldn’t know how to work it?” You see?  YOU SEE?

     She asks me if it costs anything to be on Facebook.  I almost said yes, since I realize this would completely deter her from it as she refuses to use her credit card online. She asked me how “people find people” on Facebook.  I explain the process, and tell her she can even make her profile private. That took about fifteen minutes to explain.

    “How do people find you then,” she asked. They don’t, I told her, as I’ve set mine to private, and made my name unsearchable (mostly so students can’t stalk me). “Ohhhh, sneaky,” she giggled.

    I may have dodged the bullet as far as having my Mom be on Facebook, but my Dad is another story. 

    I have a horrible confession, you guys.  I was at my parent’s house one day helping my Mom forward an email (YES) and I happened to see that a friend of my father’s had sent him an email requesting he join Facebook.  After two seconds of sheer panic, I clicked on the email and deleted it. My Mom asked, “What’d you just do?” I made up some technical stuff that was over her head to confuse her and she was fine.

    My Dad being on Facebook would be disastrous.  He’s much more computer saavy then my Mom is, as he sends texts via Blackberry and knows how to forward and CC someone on an email.

    Sidenote: I sent my Mom a text once for fun, knowing it would confuse the shit out of her. I get a call a few minutes letter and she says, “Why is a big envelope on my phone screen right now?” I explain. She reads the text which says something cheesy like, “Hi Mom, love you” and says, “Thank you.”  That’s it.  No discussion on how to reply back, no questions on what a text message is. Nothing. She even keeps a list of phone numbers in her purse because she had no idea how to program a number into her phone. I spent about five minutes one day doing it for her, and explained how to press a number down on the phone to speed-dial me, my Dad, or the vet (she’s on a first name basis there apparently) but I still see her pull out that paper to call my Dad on his cell. Dammit.

    Anyway, I can just see my Dad making some wiseass comments about my status updates, totally busting my balls (or ovaries, since I don’t have balls) and saying something way more funny than I ever could. I accepted long ago that my Dad is cooler than me, but don’t necessarily want everyone to know. (I’ll just write it on a public forum then, right? O.K.)

    My Dad is like the musician that you love (and he really is a musician, too!!) that you want nobody else to know about because it makes you feel superior. When my friends find out about my cool Dad, they’re all, “Your Dad is SO cool,” and I’m all smug like, all, “Oh, I know.” It’s a nice process. I can’t give that up.

    And honestly, some stuff I don’t want my parents to know about.  I posted a comment a few weeks ago, joking that I was a “MILF” after I randomly got asked out.  I’d rather not have the conversation with either of my parents explaining what a MILF is, thanks very much.

    But for now, I’m safe.  I feel though it’s only a matter of time until I get an email that my Dad has requested me as a friend, and I’m sure everyone within a fifty mile radius will know since I will scream.  Loudly. Because, “It’s just common sense, anybody knows you keep the worlds APART!”

    Thanks, George Costanza.

    My marriage has been shaky, practically teetering on the edge of not making it, since the very beginning. We were engaged after only dating for six months, and I found out we were pregnant before we were married. I was horribly sick while pregnant and was forced to quit my job. Arguments over money seemed to happen constantly, and we were unable to enjoy anything vaguely reminiscent of being “newlyweds”. Three years have passed and we still argue constantly, but know better than to do so in front of Danny. 

    Even though I try not to think about it too much, my marriage tends to bring out the worst in me. I’ve gotten angrier than I ever thought possible, heard things come out of my mouth that don’t even sound like something I would say, and it makes me feel like shit. My buttons are constantly punched (we passed pushed about two years ago), and it becomes difficult to continue to hold my tongue, especially when Danny is involved. 

     I’ve already mentioned that we sleep with our son. There seem to be a trillion reasons for us doing so, but there’s one main reason it’s still happening. When we moved into our three bedroom condo, my husband immediately started painting “Danny’s room”.  He was still in a crib then, and I felt more comfortable having that in our bedroom. A few months after we moved in, a friend of my husband’s moved up from Tampa. My husband explained that he would only be there for a couple months, so he moved into “Danny’s room” since it had a closet (unlike the third bedroom we now use for storage). I didn’t think it was that big of deal because Danny was still too little for his own big boy room, and I thought George’s friend would only be with us for a little while.

    I have no concept of time, but I believe that was over six months ago. Probably more. I’ve grown to absolutely adore George’s friend, who has become like family to me and an uncle to Danny. He helps around the house, is polite, cooks (!!!), and is generally more pleasant to be around than my own husband.  Needless to say, I can’t see him ever leaving, and wouldn’t want him to. 

     Rewind to two months ago. Danny and I were sleeping, and George was in the living room watching television. A loud thump woke me up, and I jumped out of bed and immediately heard Danny screaming.  He’d fallen off the bed. It’s not a short fall either, as we have a huge king bed that’s at least Danny’s height off the floor.  He was fine, but it scared the shit out of me. In tears, I told George that Danny definitely needed his own bed, that the bed railing we’d put up and barricade of pillows wasn’t cutting it anymore. He said he’d talk to our roommate about moving into the “storage” bedroom.
 
    Cut to last night.

    I have a cold, so I’d taken some Nyquil and passed out.  I vaguely remember Danny being in the bed with me, but nothing more.  Whenever George falls asleep with Danny (rarely) I tiptoe in every thirty minutes or so to make sure Danny’s still breathing (I STILL do this, and have since he was a day old) and that the barricade of pillows is still in place. George would think I’m crazy if he knew this, especially since he consistently comments on how “paranoid” I am and rolls his eyes if I react “too dramatically” whenever Danny falls or has an accident. I am a parent, but certainly not a dramatic one. I’ve taught Danny from the beginning that if you have a little accident (or a little fall) you can laugh at yourself and get right back up.  I guess in my husband’s eyes there is a fine line between being “dramatic” and normal. 

    But back to last night…

    I’m knocked out, and I hear the dreaded thump.  Even in my Nyquil induced haze, I get that panicky someone’s-punched-me-in-the-stomach/holy-shit-something-is-wrong-with-my-kid feeling. Danny’s fallen again. Even though he’s yelling loud enough to wake someone up in the next county, he’s fine. George comes rushing in and asks me what happened. He’d been playing video games in the other room (surprise, surprise) and heard Danny fall.

    Immediately, he says, “What is wrong with you?” Since I’m drugged up, I shake my head and ask him what he means.  “This is the SECOND time he’s fallen when in bed with you.”

What.

 The.

Fuck.

    George was upset, obviously looking for someone or something to blame, and made me the target. Never mind the countless times I’ve come home from work to find Danny with a lump on his head, and George with some ridiculous explanation like, “He jumped and hit his head on the table,” and me left thinking why the fuck weren’t you watching him but holding my tongue. Our kid was/is fine, and that’s what matters.

    After George left the room, I started to wake up slowly and step of out the Nyquil haze. I got angrier and angrier and angrier.  Danny fell back asleep within minutes, but I laid in bed stewing. Rather than walking out of the bedroom and confronting George in front of our roommate (and God forbid walk in front of the television and interrupt a game in process), I calmly sent him a text message. It was after eleven, so I questioned him about not coming in earlier to see if the baby had proper pillow “blockage”. I explained that I didn’t even remember the baby crawling in bed with me since I was literally sick and tired. I also reminded him that this never would have happened, had he had the balls to say something to our roommate about moving rooms so Danny could have his own bed that would undoubtedly be much closer to the floor. I also thanked (yes,thanked) him for reminding me what he’s really like. 

    Making me feel like a shitty mother says more about my husband than it does me. Blaming me for an accident was cruel, unnecessary, and says a lot about the lack of solidarity in our marriage.  It’s become a game of who’s right, who’s the better parent, and who can get the last word in. 

And it’s not working.

I thanked my husband for reminding me what our life shouldn’t be like, but is. I can only hold my tongue---and my marriage together---for so long. 

(before I take my foot out of my mouth and shove it in his ass.)